I have unfolded and refolded your letter a dozen times. You are going to the West Bank and you want me to tell you everything I learned, everything I wish I had known. “Write as if you could go back in time and tell yourself what to do differently,” you said.
I knew so little; I am ashamed to admit it now. I sift through the litter of my memory to find you something worth remembering, but I only remember the way Amira stood in front of a class of college students trying to elicit discussion, to get them to talk about how they were feeling as Israeli jets swept over Gaza.